


Lament

by orphan_account



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Despair, I JUST WANT MY SAD MAIA BOY TO BE HAPPY GOD DAMN IT, I'm Sorry, Love, M/M, THIS FIC DOES NOT MAKE HIM HAPPY, celebrimbor is nice, crime of passion, i got sad, mairon knows he done fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 14:33:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11670996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mairon doesn't just wrestle with himself- he fucking jousts.





	Lament

Mairon was in a bloody fuck ton of trouble.

He needed those rings, damn it, especially the big head honcho ring that would (if all went to plan) make everyone wearing the other rings do what he told them to do. He even had a cool name planned out for it – “The One Ring”. He couldn’t wait to shove it up Manwe’s arse.

But he was in trouble, because summer nights were warm in Ost-In-Edhil, and the wine was strong. The city was beautiful and full of fair things, and it was making him remember what it was like to be in Valinor once again. He’d considered it, oh, how he’d thought, thought about crawling to Eonwe’s feet and begging him to advocate for his poor old friend, thought about defecting to stand once more at Curumo’s side.

He hadn’t thought about it for very long. Eonwe was much different from the gentle bird he’d known. The Herald of Manwe had no use for kindness. And Curumo had turned into a snake when once he had been a timid mouse, sapped of all his softness and full of cruelty. He called himself Saruman, and walked in the guise of a bitter old man. Mairon supposed he did have a lot to be bitter about, himself chief among those reasons.

He’d abandoned them. He knew he had. Mairon had run off and left them to their own devices, when he could’ve saved them. He could’ve gotten down on his knees and begged them to come with him, to understand, to join him and serve his lord together. But he didn’t, because he had been such a fool, and in failing to save them he failed to save himself.

Now, it was almost as if he had found them again.

He was Annatar, Lord of Gifts, and indeed Yule had been merry in Aule’s forges when Mairon was around. Tonight he was hiding in his forge and working on a circlet for the very person he was trying to avoid. He was falling in love. He was falling very quickly and very hard in love, and that was not bloody fucking alright, damn it.

He already was in love. He’d been in love for ages and ages, and stayed that way, because the object of his affections was perfect and easy to adore.

But Celebrimbor was different. Where Melkor had been quick to brush him off once the deed was done, the lord of Ost-In-Edhil bade him stay, offering up praises and cup after cup of wine spent together with him. It was making Mairon forget himself, making him yearn for this companionship, making him put off the culmination of his plans in favor of just one more evening with Celebrimbor, one more glass of heady, sweet wine.

He didn’t want it to be over.

He missed this.

And in his sorrow, he began to question.

Mairon knew he had loved Melkor, more than Eonwe, more than Curumo, more than himself. He knew Melkor had loved him, at first. He cherished the memory of days spent doing nothing more than enjoying each other’s company, when every encounter didn’t just have to be about touch and pleasure. He missed the way Melkor used to come down to his forge and listen to him prattle on for hours and hours about some alloy, or the setting of a jewel, or some new armor design he had planned. Melkor used to love to listen to him talk, fool though he was. Mairon wondered what had changed.

He clung to the circlet he had made for Celebrimbor and let the tears roll off his cheeks.

“Annatar? Annatar, what is the matter?”

Gentle concern, like Eonwe, like Curumo, and Mairon melts into Celebrimbor’s arms, sobbing wretchedly. He has no right to be crying over his shoulder. He’s a year away from completely screwing him over. But it feels so good, to hold and to be held, and he is so deep in love that he wonders if he will even go through with his plan.

The answer? He will. Maybe Melkor doesn’t love him anymore. But Mairon loves him, loves him more than he loves Eonwe, more than he loves Curumo, more than he loves himself. He will cling to the memory of times that were better than they are now, because he is his master’s perfect servant, his lieutenant, his right-hand man. He has cast his lot in with this ship and he will not let it sink, not when it is in his power to prevent it, because he is Mairon, and he is done being disloyal.

Except, except, his heart won’t let him fucking forget how much he loves Celebrimbor.

He tells him so. “I love you, I love you,” a voice so broken and pitiful that Celebrimbor has to scoop him up, has to take him away, has to hold him until Mairon presses kisses to his lips

“Annatar, why do you cry?” Celebrimbor asks him. “Please do not say it is because you love me.”

“No, never,” he cries, even though it is, that is precisely the reason why he is in anguish.

He cannot bear to think of disappointing his master, and he cannot bear to think of hurting Celebrimbor. He does not know what to do.

Melkor is counting on him. Gothmog is counting on him. Thuringwethil is counting on him. He will not let their memory fade, not like Eonwe, not like Curumo. He will not be known as one who forgets his friends.

But Celebrimbor is so good to him, and is it wrong to want comfort for oneself?

He refuses to think of these things. He will stick to the plan, he tells himself, he will make the damned rings and enjoy the look on Manwe’s face when he blasts him off of Taniquetil. And he’ll let Celebrimbor fuck him while he’s at it, let himself be held down and comforted and speared open however the damn elf pleases, because he’s said he loves him, and so what if it’s true? He has to keep up the pretense regardless. (It’s mostly for himself.)

Celebrimbor isn’t rough, not like Melkor. He doesn’t tie Mairon like Melkor did. He lets Mairon touch him, lets him wrap his arms around his shoulders and cry out as he’s fucked up the mattress, lets him come as many times as he can and never pushes him beyond what he can take. He’ll let him stay afterwards, sip at a glass of wine and make merry by the fireside, just like Melkor used to when things were better.

Mairon wishes he could turn back time, go back to when the days were young, when the Children of Illuvatar were but a distant expectation, when he might walk down the streets of Valinor to find Eonwe and Curumo waiting for him by the river, like they did when he disappeared and left them both behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Yo listen I'm sorry this is not how I intended anything to turn out
> 
> I'm gonna go cry now
> 
> Come find me and bother me about elves at strinmichaelis@gmail.com


End file.
